ThingsPondered

(Warning: Not for the weak-stomached or faint of heart.)

In late winter 2003, the United States of America had a President named George W. Bush.  He was, at that time, exploiting the 9/11 attack on our country in order to promote war on Iraq.  This war-making would be very beneficial to his and his friends’ financial interests and, he hoped, to his political career.  A rather weak-willed citizenry followed him like the proverbial drove of dumb sheep.

It was my blessing (or curse) to see then that this would be another Vietnam-like fiasco and waste of lives.  Thus, I participated in a march for peace (also known as anti-war) in the nation’s capitol.  This was on the Ides of March, 2003.  A month later, the USA entered the protested war. 

For the sake of historians who relish primary sources, I would like to publicly report the text on signs of my fellow marchers.  A thorough knowledge of the players, allies, scapegoats, and the nation’s mood and contemporary pop culture will be needed to understand some of the messages. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How did our oil get under their sand?

Read my apoca-lips.

Dad, I need money for gas.  Can I start a war?

Chiracq for American president.

Merci, France!  Danke, Deurschland!

Empty warheads in White House.

W stands for wrong.

The Pope, France, Germany, and Daddy can’t all be wrong.

Make love on a rock.

Drunken draft dodger drives country into ditch.

Bush: war-whore.  Whose missile is bigger?  (This accompanied by racy cartoon drawing with a missile replacing a male anatomical feature.)

(A sign carried by a young woman:  ) 

The only BUSH I trust is my own.

We know Saddam has the weapons because we have the receipts.

Support our troops:  Bring them home!

Tea for peace delegates                                    $325

Conference room                                            $1,80

Hotel rooms                                                     $3,445

           PEACE                                                   PRICELESS!         

I miss sex in the White House.

Who would Jesus bomb?

I’m in shock but not in awe.

Frodo has lost.  Bush has the ring.

No child left behind really means send them to Iraq.

(On an 8-year-old boy’s T-shirt:  ) 

Am I collateral damage?

A sandwich-board sign on a jack Russell terrier…

(One side) Little Dog for Peace.

(Other side) He’s not my President!

Now, in 2009, many more people agree with the marchers.  A bit late, I say.  Hopefully, we will finally remember history so as to avoid being condemned to repeat it.

With much irony:  Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. *

Maren E. Morgan-Thomson

·         *It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.

I am saying goodbye to a special place.  My mind, intuition, soul, heart, and soon bank account, know it is the proper time to pass it to the next family.  Therefore, there are no regrets mixed into my aches.  Nevertheless, it goes hard with me, saying goodbye to my sanctuary.  Sunlight, ubiquitous wood, glass doorknobs, porcelain kitchen sink, tiles from 1937, a back garden framed with tall privet hedges like “the secret garden.”  May the next wonderful family’s guardian angels watch over them as they love and create a home in this space.  And, may my guardian angels quickly take me to my next sanctuary.

I was induced to enter the Exeter Commons strip mall complex today for the first time because we received coupons in the mail and a friend hipped me to this being the official “Opening Day.”

I navigated the new traffic lights, roads, signs, and parking lot.   The store’s exterior perked me up:  large concrete red-painted  spheres  rest along the front sidewalk – a creative way to block terrorists from driving into the walls.  But it is highly visually pleasing and could be lovely to sit on.

I visited this morning – a drizzly Sunday at 9 AM (way before church services are done for most in this traditional God-fearing Lutheran county)- and was delighted by the low number of shoppers (although there are a disproportionate number of crying toddlers.)  A greeter offered me a map of the store.   Btw, this is a young person greeter – not elderly or infirm.

It is heart-warming that a plethora of bright-eyed perky sales associates of all ages stop to ask ”Do you need help finding something?”   They are a garden full of smiles.  Also, I had a lovely chat with the Pharmacy employees about transferring a prescription.

The store’s layout seems very similar to that of the Target on the western side of the county.  That makes shopping easier.   However, it seems to have brighter lighting – a good thing in my opinion. 

I had the flyer of coupons – mostly for groceries, so I proceeded to that wall.  I was amazed.  The local equivalent – Walmart – does not have a grocery section with perishable foods – so I was “gaga.”  Furthermore, Walmart’s  foods are not higher end. My taste in home design and aesthetics is more of the Target sensibility than Walmart.   

BIG BONUS right now – there are Store Opening Specials this week – so I bought items which were at reduced prices and used a coupon on top of that.  In theory, I saved $11.

My suggestion:    Go this week, if no other time, to take advantage of the opening week specials.

All this hullabaloo over dead Michael Jackson!  I think there is a clash between reality versus “hero-fication” of the artist.   The USA is feeling the need for a hero right now, and posthumous production insures that the object of worship won’t do anything embarrassing or unworthy of the honor.

Michael contributed to the pop music scene.  He had some good tunes.  And, yes, he composed or contributed to the composition of some of them.  His team produced some good music videos.  And, yes again, Michael actively contributed to the creative process for some.

Michael’s personal life is rather well-known.  He was not perfect.  And, his life was darker than a “run of the mill not-perfect.”  Some would say he was dangerously mentally ill: especially his attitude towards children.

When honoring someone for career achievement, should personal life have a bearing?  You decide.

In my book, whether or not personal life is considered, Michael Jackson was not so exemplary or artistically creative to deserve the huge accolades some are bestowing.  MANY other musicians and performers are more worthy of honor.

An eastern suburb of Reading, PA has joined the local communities sponsoring farmers’ markets.  As I did not think it would be operating on the 4th of July, I wandered over the next Saturday to see if it, indeed, exists.  Yes, Virginia, there is an outdoor farm market in Exeter Township!

On the approach towards the parking lot of Boscov’s, a retailer renowned for civic-minded activities, I spied five tent tops in a far corner.  These were the little ten by ten feet jobs that families use at soccer games or the beach.  In addition, there were two folding tables without covering and one food vendor with the classic beach umbrella arrangement over the cart.

This modest start is exactly how the West Reading market began.  It is almost as if a few brave vendors must test the waters, to the benefit of others who will jump in once the consumer interest has been proven.   Happily, several of the tents offered exactly what I wanted and expected: locally grown produce.  One stand had cabbages larger than bowling balls and a commodity new to me - golden beets.  Others had garden plants or homemade catsup and preserves.  I found the preserves to be costly.  Am I willing to pay $6 for a large jar of homemade jam?   I think it will need to be one of my favorite fruits for that sort of sum to leave my wallet. The classic hot dog vendor - well, what can be said, other than seize the opportunity to feed the masses of shoppers.

I was a little disappointed to see that one of the tables was for some sort of eco-vitamin-snake oil-wonder drink.  That does not match the spirit of the endeavor, in my humble opinion.   Nonetheless, if you live nearby and need some fresh produce for the weekend, this market is worth a look.

I live in a strange place: Berks County in southeastern Pennsylvania.  Why strange?  Strange because it has changed so rapidly over the last 25 years.  When I first regularly spent time here starting in the 1970’s, it consisted of a city (county seat) at its center and then a few villages sprinkled throughout the rest of its diamond-shaped boundary ( yes – this is the county of John Updike’s Rabbit series.)  Everything else was farmland.  Active farmland.

This agrarian county was so peaceful and wholesome that it was pretty BORING to the high school youth, who frequently moved away the first chance they got.  But then they somehow wandered back to raise their families.  It was very common to drive past miles and miles of cornfields to get to anywhere.  But things started changing, slowly, and initially on a small scale.

Who should I blame, if blame there must be?  Commercial lenders?  Definitely yes.  Those &*^$% money-grubbers kept supporting new strip malls or shopping centers when good commercial properties stood vacant.  The Chamber of Commerce?  Probably.  I served on a committee in the Chamber and could see that its vision of “good” or “progress” was and is to transform Berks County into a clone of King of Prussia, an upscale expensive highway-riddled fast-paced, did I say expensive?, sophisticated area in suburban Philadelphia.  The Chamber could not see the goodness that Berks County had, and so committed itself to throwing the baby out with the bathwater.  The then-and-future residents?  Yes.  They lusted after the lifestyle of the afore-mentioned Philadelphia suburbs.

Twenty-five years ago, one did not use the word “suburbs” for Berks County.  There was big-city Reading, and then there were Leesport and Kutztown and Mohnton and Shillington and Mt. Penn and Bernville and Birdsboro and Hamburg and Morgantown.  Each was separated from the other by fields and farms.  Manure was a springtime fragrance along our 2-lane roads.  However since that time, real estate developers (I forgot to also apportion blame to them) have persuaded families to transform their farms into housing tracts.  We now have the vinyl siding suburban houses and the *%^#^& townhouse/condo horror zones.  We now use the word “suburbs.”

We now have barely any farmland.  Instead, there are more malls, and parking lots.  There are national chain stores instead of the independent locally-owned bookstore, hardware store and fabric shops.  There are franchises of every fast- and medium-fast food chains.  And the highways – bleccch!  Lots of macadam covers former vegetation.  Fields and woods are becoming scarce.

Curiously, there is a new trendy activity that Berks County communities are racing to create.  Guess what?  They want Famers’ Markets!  We have always had a few small indoor halls which open one to three days per week for farmers and vendors to sell.  But to be truly au courant, a community must have an open air market with local, and even organic, produce.  Sort of like the roadside stands we used to have?  Strange, this Berks County.

A story of a bachelor’s induction into cat fatherhood

Sammy’s mother had already chosen me.  Mysterious-looking in her tabby raiment, she was an alley gal who suddenly appeared at the door of the restaurant I lived above.  After she figured out how to get into my third floor rooms, the staff decided she was mine.  I named her Fritzie, after the cook.

Fortunately, I had advisors on the ways of the domestic feline, for I had never owned a cat.  As a team, we set her up with a basket for a bed, food, and toilet accommodations.  Fritzie was a sweet girl who quietly enriched my life with her presence.  Cautious presence, that is.  Apparently, she must have been mistreated by people and was wary of me approaching her.  Yet, she was the one who selected my life and, all in all, she seemed to be thriving.

Thriving, indeed.  Fritzie was swelling.  The first educated guess was – God no – worms.  A vet was able to examine her and happily eliminate that possibility.  Concurrently, the reason for Fritzie’s changes revealed itself.  She was on the nest.  Or the litter box.  In other words, my little vixen was pregnant.

At the appointed time, the litter was delivered.   As the kittens grew, they started to move around and do those “kitten things:” chasing each other, practicing their leaps.  I had no plans to keep any of the kittens, but…there was one little fellow, Sammy, attired with white boots.  I found that appealing and also comfortingly reminiscent of family legends regarding my grandfather’s cat, “Boots.”

Once, as I sat watching TV with a plastic tumbler of water at my side, Sammy leaped up and grasped the cup.  Mind you, the proportions were as comical as you or me trying to embrace the bulbous reservoir of a water tower.  Of course, he couldn’t really get a claw-hold. As I steadied the wobbling tumbler, slightly lifting it from the table in the process, Sam steadily and slowly slid down and off – just like a cartoon kitty – falling all the way to the floor.  Unfazed, he gleefully bounded off to his next adventure (and into my heart.)

A few days later, Fritzie’s brood romped about my apartment.  Now fully weaned, they used a cut- down cardboard shipping box for their quarters.  Because its sides were about eight inches high, gaining entry to the box provided a playful challenge for the kittens.  One of Sammy’s siblings took a running start and, like a high jumper, made her attempt.  She got her front paws over the sides of the cardboard barrier, intent on pulling herself up and over.  Sammy, with all the wild abandon and joy of a successful linebacker, rushed and sacked her.  They both toppled outside the box, delightedly wrestling and chortling.

The deal was clinched.  Sammy stays.

For these heartwarming recollections, many thanks go to Pete Souders, former owner of Ortlieb’s Jazzhaus in Northern Liberties for two glorious decades.

The four-county area near Boyertown has gained a sought-after artisan typically found only in the largest of metropolitan areas. Djembe builders and repair masters are a rare breed in central Pennsylvania.  Fortunately, we now have one!  A hearty welcome extends to Doug Libby, proprietor of Alive Drumming, with locations at Zern’s Farmers Market, Gilbertsville, and South Jersey.

The djembe is a hand-drum  - not one of the drums seen in rock bands. Originating from West Africa, it is made from a tree trunk carved into modified hourglass shape.  Traditionally, the drum head is made of goatskin.  With the increased appreciation of world music, the djembe’s popularity in the United States has steadily increased over the last twenty years and is now frequently the staple instrument played in drum circles.

Doug glows describing what he likes about djembes.  “Every time I play, especially in our drum circles, I feel so cleansed from daily stresses, almost like a spiritual renewing of some sort…I have learned that the djembe is a very powerful instrument.  Djembes are used in healing ceremonies, they are used for calling spirits within the spiritual world that we are surrounded by, and are used just to have fun.”  Doug is also drawn to the spiritual nature of the djembe drum. “The djembe itself is known to carry three spirits: the spirit of the tree that it is carved from, the spirit of the goat that is used for the head of the drum, and the spirit of the drum maker.” 

Doug first became interested in djembes about seven years ago.  Like many Americans, he really didn’t know much about them.  However, while attending The Swagg’s Greatful Dead Tribute concert in Kansas City, he witnessed his first drum circle.  “I was in awe and really amazed by the trancing beats that were being played.  It was at this show I bought my first djembe from a drum vendor.  My first djembe was a mini baby djembe - a  perfect size for a beginner’s drum.”

After that concert in Kansas City, Doug and a group of friends in Missouri started their own drum circle every Saturday night.  “We called it ‘another Saturday night’ after a well known Grateful Dead song.  At first we didn’t have too many hand percussion instruments.  One of my best friends Paul would actually play on pots and pans … They sounded awesome.  We eventually purchased a Conga set, and some more djembes.” 

Doug’s musical journey continued while on active duty with the Navy.  When he transferred to the Willow Grove Navy Air Base, he wanted to get involved with the drum scene in the Philadelphia area.  “But just playing wasn’t enough for me.  I had a deep interest in building these sacred instruments,” Doug explains.  He found Conrad, a drum builder, online and began email correspondence.  After attending a workshop with this Philadelphia area builder on how to rehead djembes, they slowly built a friendship.  Doug began an unpaid apprenticeship working for Conrad in his shop trying to learn as much as he could. 

Doug relates, Conrad’s work is “so amazing.   My apprenticeship lasted on and off for about a year. I knew my apprenticeship was over when he started to offer money to work for him.  It was such an awesome moment when that time came.”  Through this spiritual skill path, Doug has left the Navy, opened his own drum shop, and can devote time to his wife and baby boy.

It is impressive that Doug incorporates spirit and energy practices in building a drum.  Doug shares, “I like to smudge each step with White Sage to cast any bad energies from the drum and draw in good energies resulting in a pure drum.  That gives out positive energies each time it is played which are spread to others.” 

Alive Drumming is located at Stand # 4 at Zern’s Farmers Market on Route

73 near the intersection with Route 100.  The email address is douglas_m_libby@yahoo.com.  It is well worth a visit to this shop.

Dictionary of Wilzbach-isms

Since my mother came from a partially German-speaking family, many of our household words were some sort of colloquialisms or creations with a Cherman flavor.  I hope relatives who may remember more of these Wilzbach vocabulary words will add to the list.

I have guessed at spellings.  Generally, in my renditions both a “u” and the “oo” are pronounced as the “u” in “put,” such as “Put the milk back in the refrigerator.”

Bruntz = brunts  (verb) to urinate

Brunser = BRUN-zer  (noun) a boy

Brunshilda = BRUNZ-hil-da  (noun) a large woman or large girl.  Think Valkeries.

Futsnipper = [pronunciation exception: U is pronounced as the “u” in “cut.”] FUT-snip-per  (noun) a person who is delaying things by obsession with minor details.  Literally, it means fart-cutter.

Goonk = gunk (noun) nose mucous

Grootzely = GRUT-sul-lee (adjective) annoyed, irritable, out of sorts

Machs nichts = mox NIX (sentence) it doesn’t matter, it makes no difference

Runtz = runts (noun) a mischievous, joke-playing yet lovable person

Runtzing or runtz  (verb) = making light-hearted mischief

Schlutz cloth = SHLUTS-cloth  (noun)  a blanket used by a toddler for comfort when going to sleep, for accompaniment to thumb sucking.  In the A & T Morgan household, it was a specially designated old, clean cloth diaper.

Schmecks = shmeks (sentence) With voice going up at the end of the word, it is a question: Does it taste good?  Or with voice staying level or dropping at the end of the word, it is a statement:  It tastes good.

Stroobled = STRUB-uld (adjective) messed up, especially for appearance such as hair or clothing

The first item in this list is primo.  After that, I consider the events equally thrilling, so their order does not imply ranking.

1.        Singing a duet with my son Benjamin for a nursing home gig at Christmastime.   He was in junior high, but was already a baritone.  (Ben wryly attributed this precocious vocal development to all the steroids he has endured for asthma.)  It was joyful to me how well our voices blended, and….duh…I guess they should have coming from the same genetic heritage.

2.       Singing a duet of Amen (from 1963 film Lilies of the Field) with Clark Lash at meeting.

3.       Singing The Verdi Requiem (alto chorus member) with orchestra, guest soloists.  The Dies Irae with timpani —- omg!  Icing on the cake was the small, private party afterwards with some good people from Reading Choral Society and bass soloist Brian Gibson.

4.       Teaching the Sunday school song “The Lord Said to Noah” with full motions, standing up, sitting down and so forth to kindergartners at St. Mary’s R.C. School.  I remember  many times singing “Rise and shine and give God the glory, glory” with my arms outstretched to the sky and thinking “I am getting PAID to do this!  Wow!”

5.       Playing one of my choral compositions (AATTBB) on the piano for a Harvard music major and his gasping with delight at one part.

6.       Singing the Queen of the Night “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” aria (from Mozart’s The Magic Flute) in a voice lesson.  I always wanted to do it.

7.       Playing djembe with good, experienced fellow drummers.

8.       Singing in District and Regional choruses in high school.

9.       Teaching and directing the St. Mary parish children’s choir in my composition of the Our Father.  Also, hearing them singing it on the playground for fun because it is lively.                                  (Like God. Duh)

1                – Room for whatever the next biggie will be -